


The Goldfish

by symphonyinA



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Canon-Based, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Leroux, This is not good goldfish care please treat your fish better than the Victorians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24436315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symphonyinA/pseuds/symphonyinA
Summary: Christine brings a gift to Erik to help him feel less lonely when she is at rehearsals. However, she knows her time of freedom is running short and yet, she finds herself not wholly opposed... if on her terms. Realistic E/C, Leroux-based
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 18
Kudos: 50





	1. A Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This was buried in some old drafts and I thought I'd see if anyone liked it, then I'd continue it. The following chapter has also been written, but I'll gage interest first before I add a new story to my never-ending list. It also works okay as a one-piece :)

It was a small thing, really, very plain. No dash of white or red could be found on him- if it was a him. Christine decided that it was.

She stood at the edge of the underground lake, the glass bowl growing leaden in her arms. She adjusted the cotton fabric over it. Beyond her, the inky waters dissolved into the air, into that immense darkness.

The steady sound of rowing echoed over the water, followed by the burnt glow of a lantern. A dark figure appeared inside the gently rocking boat.

The side grated against the stone bank. Erik stepped out of the vessel and assisted Christine inside with a hand white and rigid as bone. She held tight to her gift.

"What is that, my dear?" he asked as he sat down across from her and took up the oars.

She smiled, adjusting the floral cotton over the bowl. "You'll see when we arrive."

He pushed off into the lake. They rocked for a moment before the boat steadied.

"Did you have a nice day?" she asked.

"I worked," he replied proudly.

"Not too hard, I trust?"

"Not too hard, no..."

He fell silent for a moment. Christine waited patiently for him to continue.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Wonderful. I had a lovely time."

"Time?" he questioned skeptically.

She brightened. "I went to the fair."

One of the oars slipped from Erik's hands and splashed into the water. He cursed under his breath.

"Old joints," he muttered, straining for the floating oar. "Forgive me. Continue."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite."

"Well..." she replied while subtly wiping a few droplets of lake water from her cheek, "I thought it would be good for me to have a moment to myself, what with this new production and all... I would have liked to take you with me, but I knew that would be impossible, and you don't seem to like that sort of thing. You like the quiet."

He averted his eyes. She continued.

"To be honest, I was a too afraid of being pick-pocketed to enjoy myself at first, but eventually I found my way into a few tents. There was a magician in one, but I fear you've ruined me for any usual magic, so I hardly enjoyed myself there. He had a rather adorable little rabbit, though, that disappeared into a hidden compartment in the table, like you've shown me.

"But the next place was this woman covered in butterflies. It was very odd. To be honest, I didn't know what it was meant to be. She simply wore them on her dress and arms. I almost thought they were decoration when I entered until I saw one flutter away. I sat down with this little family for a while. They had bought their son one of those wooden swords to play with," she smiled to herself. "They deeply regretted their purchase. He kept tapping his sister's back to upset her, and eventually they all left this poor butterfly woman's tent with two wailing children.

"After that, though, I had my palm read, which is more fun with others, of course, but still. The woman told me I would have a long life, but full of trials, which seemed a bit odd to say. Then she told me about my past, all about my father, and the opera house, all about me, very simply, but plainly. It was rather remarkable."

"They are very gifted," he whispered, "with deceit."

"Deceit?"

He waved his hand. "Nothing. Is there anything more you did?"

"Not exactly. I had a bit of sweets, then started to leave when a gentleman grabbed me- he wanted to win a prize for me. I think he'd had a bit of brandy, and his accent was faintly English. There were a lot of other men with him, all swaying a bit. That must have been why he was so bold. It frightened me a little, but we were with lots of people, so I didn't fear too much. Being from the opera and all, though, one can never be too careful with gentlemen."

"I expect he failed?"

She smiled. "A few times, but he was very determined, you see. It was one of those cup games, with the ball inside? And he did win, after maybe nine attempts. I tried to get away after the first, but they were so adamant and I didn't want to upset him. But he gave me this, then, well, tried to make off with me, I suppose- but I managed to slip away. It helps to be short sometimes."

"Do not go out alone again," he said softly, but with warning. "Surrounded by others or not, any young woman should be accompanied, especially someone of your... status."

"I know that," she sighed in irritation. "You don't have to tell me such things- I've been dealing with it since I set foot in Paris. There was simply no one else for me to bring."

"Then do not go."

"But I've had so little fun of late!" she offered. "I needed an escape from these grueling rehearsals for an afternoon."

"There are better ways... But what was your prize?"

"I'll show you in a moment. I'm making a present of it to you."

"Oh," he breathed.

"I hope it will make my absences less miserable... For a time, that is."

The boat eased up onto the shore, and Erik assisted her out onto the slick stone. She waited at the door for him while he tied up the boat, and then they went into the house together. She flicked on the electric lights with a little smile.

Erik took her cloak and hung it next to his near the front door, on little gold pegs. As he removed his gloves, she went to set the bowl on the dining table, adjusting it just so. Erik reached into his waistcoat for his pocket watch.

"Was I late?" he inquired, staring at it in distaste.

"Not at all. I must have been early."

"But you waited?" he insisted as he snapped the watch shut.

"Not for long," she replied earnestly.

"You waited, though. You shouldn't need to wait."

"It takes you time. If it makes you happy, I'll try to be a little bit late next time to make up for it... Were you busy?"

He gestured to the piano with his spindly fingers outstretched.

"It keeps me occupied," he stated.

"Of course. A very good occupation, too."

A smile ghosted over his frail lips. "Very good, yes..."

He wandered over to the dining room table and took the edge of the cotton fabric covering the bowl between his fingers. Christine smiled and patted the top.

"Is it a vase?" he asked.

"No," she replied, stifling a laugh. "It would be a rather round vase, don't you think? Go on, see."

He pulled off the fabric to reveal a glass bowl with blue pebbles at the bottom and a little plant in the center. Christine's mouth opened in shock.

"Where did he go?" she said.

"Who?" Erik inquired.

"The goldfish... That was my gift to you. I-I made certain he was inside, I did, oh, you don't think he managed to get into the lake? But how?"

"No... I don't know," he said with a wry smile.

She caught it, and smiled back. "Oh, I see. I ought to be able to tell by now... Where are you hiding your gift?"

"Place the fabric over the bowl," he advised, setting her hand on it.

She did so with a little flourish.

"There," she said. "Now?"

He pulled off the fabric, and there was the tiny goldfish, swimming around in perfect contentment.

"You really do like to tease," she said playfully. "I'll never know how you do such things... Well? Do you like it?"

His amusement faded swiftly. He turned to take a good look at the little creature, suddenly realizing its value. She had given him a gift. His hollow features were devoid of expression, unable to react to this knew understanding.

Christine's heart thudded nervously.

"Do you not like it?" she asked. "If so, I can-"

"I like it," he replied in a quiet voice, quite enthralled by the little creature.

"Oh, good," she said in relief. "I thought it might help while I'm away, too. I can't bear the thought of you spending so many days without company. Once this opera is over, I hope to have a much smaller role in the next, then I can visit far more often."

"Smaller role?" he inquired in a low voice. "You think they will give you a smaller role?"

"Well," she replied, nervously entwining her hands about her wrists, "Carlotta is more well-known, and I feel like Violetta would fit her better than me."

"You will do splendidly as Violetta."

"You act as if you have decided for me. I have no authority on the matter, and the fact is, I cannot _bear_ having all that attention. I would much rather have smaller roles."

"You cannot return to the chorus, my dear," he crooned. "Not now."

"Not the chorus. You're right, they might not place me back there now, but just some smaller roles-"

"For a gifted soprano, that is unheard of," he said with a hint of anger.

She fell silent, then looked up at him with a bit of curiosity.

"Do you want me to be famous?" she inquired.

He shrugged, tapping his fingertips over the surface of the dining table. His eyes swept over the little goldfish, then back to Christine.

"Do you?" she asked again.

"It is not what I want," he replied with a simple flourish of his hand, "but what you want. You have already astonished Paris, and if you wish to stop there... I suppose you may."

"I like a more quiet living, like you."

A hint of fire sparked in his eyes.

"I do not like a quiet living," he retorted sharply. "It is a necessity is all."

"Of course... yes, of course, forgive me. I suppose it is not so quiet here when you play, either."

"No, it is not..."

He gestured for her to sit down and went to prepare dinner. She remained put for a moment, amusing herself with a bit of lint on her sleeve, before wandering over to the harp in the corner. It was almost as beautiful in appearance as the music Erik could pull from its silver strings. The wood was nearly black, which was in sharp contrast to its gold leaves and pale etchings.

She sat down at it, but cast a glance back to be sure Erik was not returning any time soon. Oil began to pop, so she was certain her curiosity would go unnoticed.

It seemed like a piano, the harp. He had only played it for her a few times, mostly during her captivity, as she had become anxious often and the music soothed her. His hands moved with such ease over the strings, quite like water, so that she could hardly observe exactly how the music was made. He also liked to impress her, which often meant playing fast enough that his fingers were a blur, yet the expression in his hollowed features was never strained. It astounded her.

The harp appeared quite simple, though. She was able to locate and recognize a few chords with her right hand. The left, however, refused to find anything at the same time, and so she decided to simply play with her right. In her twenty minutes, she managed to find a few C major melodies, which, of course, was very simple once she discovered which strings were which. The issue was, however, that she did not know how to make notes sharp or flat. She thought it must have something to do with the pedals, but she didn't want to harm the instrument by accident, so she kept to the normal strings.

She was rather deeply involved with finding another melody when she felt the breath of a hand upon her shoulder, and she leapt up out of her seat.

"Oh!" she cried. "Erik, I-"

"Would you like to play a real piece?" he offered, his hand unfurling towards her.

She blinked. "A real piece?"

"Yes... if you don't mind some assistance."

"Not at all."

She sat back down, and he placed himself behind her, his legs to the side to avoid any impropriety. Even so, Christine found that she had become a bit nervous by their closeness. It gathered in the pit of her stomach in a rather odd sort of bubbly warmth.

"Do you mind if I place my hands on yours?" he asked. "It will be easier."

"Not at all," she breathed.

The same bubbly warmth formed in his stomach, too, though he did not comprehend it as anything other than nerves. He reached out his arms around her, collecting her hands in his. It was almost too much for to bear, surrounding her like this, making music like this.

He guided her fingers to the proper chords, very slowly, but she did not resist his correction. As her hands became more confident beneath his, he continued the line. She remembered very easily, but only with his guidance for placement. It was a wretched instrument to learn, however beautiful the music was. He had only needed a year to learn it, and another for mastery.

"Lovely," he said softly as he released her hands, and his foot from the pedal.

She gave a shrill little laugh, and nearly clapped her hand over her mouth at it. Why was she acting so odd? And there was a giddiness in her throat. Yes, a giddiness***. It could not be described any other way.

He glanced back over towards the kitchen with an air of melancholy.

"Our food is cold now," he said. "Excuse me-"

"No, wait," she insisted, grabbing his wrist.

He turned back sharply with surprise. "Is something wrong?"

"Could I spend the night here?"

He blinked rather stupidly for a moment, before nodding. "If that is what you wish."

"I don't want to go."

His neck jerked sharply in what must have been another nod. Christine watched him disappear into the kitchen before she sat back down at the table and threw her head into her hands.

Why had she said that? Erik was so impressionable that he could assume she meant she _never_ wanted to leave, when she certainly did, just not yet.

Lately, she had been thinking often of her future. It was obvious to her, from the ring on her finger to Erik's murmurings, that she would eventually not be able to leave. Not leaving Erik, however, did not seem so terrible, but leaving the earth for this little hole in the ground, that was the terrifying end.

Perhaps she could simply accept his unspoken proposal and ask to look at houses aboveground, then be quite secure, but this was a risk, too. Here was where he felt safe. Moreover, if he knew how she felt, that she was only truly herself with him, that when she left she missed him as much as he missed her, he might become even more desperate to keep her at his side.

It was such a delicate balance. She wanted to be free, and yet wanted to be with Erik, who she knew wanted to marry her. Marriage, in and of itself, would take all chance of freedom.

He brought in their meal. She watched him, his movements, how his hands glided through the air.

Would she be content as his friend for eternity? Moreover, would he? He was alone, and he had the chance to change that at his fingertips. She couldn't even imagine his desperation.

He loved her. He loved her more than anything. He would commit murder for her without a second thought. To be that loved, that treasured... she hadn't felt that way since her father died. She had been his world.

Now she was Erik's.

...

"You seem restless," he observed that night as they sat by the fire.

She had dropped two stitches in the past five minutes. He was quick to notice such telltale signs.

"I'm fine," she replied with a little shrug.

"Do you want some tea?"

"I'm really just fine."

"A bit of music?"

She folded her lips, but sighed with a little smile. "Well, I couldn't possibly say no to that... Could I make a request, though?"

"The harp?"

Her smile crept up slightly. "You know my mind well."

"Do you intend to learn it?" he offered with a tilt of his skull.

"I doubt you have the patience to teach me, especially when I have no proclivity for instruments."

"Your voice is an instrument," he replied firmly, pointing just below her chin. Her chest rose and fell. "You can play it with great finesse. And your father, as I know well, played the fiddle better than anyone in Europe."

She colored, whether at his closeness or his flattery, she knew not.

"Well, Scandinavia, I would say," she offered. "I like to romanticize."

"Still, you must have some of that gift." He gestured to the harp. "Come, I can show you where to start."

"Isn't it rather late? Perhaps tomorrow?"

He froze, then turned to face her fully, expressionless. "Tomorrow?"

"I-I have a bit of time before rehearsals."

"Oh. Yes," he replied, barely hiding his evident disappointment as his eyes trailed along the Persian rug. "I suppose you do..."

"I'll visit you after the performance on Friday," she added hastily. "I promise. And I never break my promises, do I?"

"No," he admitted without opening his mouth.

"And you have your new little friend with you! I think we ought to keep him on the table, too, so we remember to feed him when we eat."

He said something inaudible as his gaze drifted lower. She reached for his hands and clasped them in hers, pulling warmth into their cold palms.

"If you were not down here," she told him softly. "I would visit you everyday."

His eyes lifted to meet hers. The touch of her hands against his was too much for him, the image of them sitting at the harp, the sound of her voice when she said, "I don't want to go" and quite suddenly he found himself begging her, on his knees, in a great surge of breath, to kiss her hand.

Nothing but madness had prompted such a vile question from his lips, and he looked down at her satin slippers, wishing he could shove the disgusting request back up his throat.

She stared down at him, her features tightening. He glanced up just enough to see it. Ah, that must have been disgust! His eyes stung with tears. She was repulsed by his lips, those foul, papery things whose only value to her were the music that issued from them. The poor child was unable to even consider his request! Her lips had pulled together into a thin pink line, and her gaze made him want to crawl down into Hell with all the other miserable beasts of the world.

"Of course," she whispered.

His heart skipped a beat. Of course? Of course what? He had forgotten his own question in the emotion of the moment. Of course she would leave forever and never return?

Then her hands dipped down, one on top of the other, like the wings of a butterfly. They were white as cream, with a dash of freckles near the wrist.

He watched them approach his face- no, not his face, his _lips_ , giving them just enough room that he could touch that pale surface bleached by Scandinavian night.

It was blasphemy. It was blasphemy! He had no religion except her, so he hardly knew what the word meant, until now, presented with such a pure thing as this. And yet, with a single bow of his head, he brought his lips to meet that now-blushing surface.

It was soft. Yes, soft and warm, like... like a little bird. He had held a little bird before, all covered in down, until it fluttered away, and that was this. Of course, the bird had not been so wet. Why were her hands wet?

"Oh, Erik, it's all right," she told him, kneeling down with him as he sobbed into her skirts. "It's all right."

He did not deserve another moment of her presence. He managed to send her to bed with a few words through his tears, and off she went in melancholy obedience, disappearing behind the white door with her blue eyes watering.

Perhaps she did not quite realize whom she had permitted her pure white hands.


	2. Clocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m glad you guys wanted this continued! Hope you enjoy. The next chapter may take a bit longer- but it will happen! Please R&R :)

The next morning, the house lay in eerie silence. Christine bathed and dressed, only mildly concerned, as there could be a great number of reasons why Erik was not making a peep.

She reached to put on her watch, but found she must have forgotten to wind it; the hands had stopped on three o'clock.

Erik would know the time.

She went into the drawing room and found it empty, but a fire had been made, and the harp had been moved to accommodate their practice. The teacher, however, was nowhere to be found.

A glance into the dining room and she found the door to his dark bedroom ajar. When she called for him, there came no reply.

Her heart rushed with unease. If only she knew the time! She was quite desperate for it, but the mother-of-pearl clock on the mantelpiece had stopped, too. Beneath it, a slip of yellow peeked out.

She sighed with mild irritation, but withdrew the paper to find a hastily scribbled note in familiar childish scrawl. It told her not to worry if he was not home yet. He had gone to see his banker.

It must have been sometime after nine o'clock, then, if the banks were open. Had she slept that late? She always woke around seven in order to prepare for rehearsals. But why would he be lying to her so plainly? Did he think her stupid?

She wandered into the dining room and sat down at the table. The goldfish stayed quite still in the water, only drifting a bit with a small swish of his orange fins. She tapped the bowl, and he darted around in reply.

The front door clicked. She turned round to find Erik entering, wearing his false nose and mustache. He had a package in his arms, the size of a hatbox. His eyes had sunk deeper into his skull, it almost seemed, but they softened upon finding her sitting at the table with his note.

"What time is it?" she asked innocently. "I forgot to wind my watch."

He did not reply, and his gaze swept the floor. He proceeded to set the package on the coffee table.

"Is something the matter?" she prodded gently, rising from her chair.

His sickly pallor was white.

"What did you see your banker for?" she asked.

He sank into his favorite armchair- of dark wood with green floral print- and clasped his hands beneath his chin.

"We should name our fish," she said brightly. "What do you think? Ori? I like Ori. Or perhaps something more original, do you think?"

"Whatever you like," he breathed.

That was at least something. Her heart continued to sink with concern, though. She drifted over to him.

"Ori, then," she agreed. She extended out her hand. "Might I see your watch? I'm afraid I'm late for rehearsals."

He buried his head in his hands, the false nose poking through them. She closed her outstretched hand and let it fall to her side.

"Won't you say something?" she asked. "You're worrying me... Are you all right?"

She brushed her hand against his shoulder, and he jerked away, drawing his hands from two red eyes.

"All right?" he snarled. Then his gaze softened in regret. "No, no, that's not... Forgive me..."

His gaze fell to the Persian rug at their feet. She withdrew from him, going to stand near the coffee table.

"What happened last night?" he asked in little more than a whisper.

"What do you mean?"

"What happened?" he said, a desperate tone emerging. "Tell me, from the time you arrived last evening, _exactly_ what happened, by the hour."

"Have you forgotten?"

"Perhaps," he admitted thoughtfully, tapping the side of his skull. "My mind is often preoccupied..."

"Well..." She folded her hands and rocked them before her as she spoke. "You brought me here, in the boat, after rehearsals. I told you about the gift I had brought, then when we arrived here, I gave it to you- a little goldfish. Then you made dinner for us- salmon with roasted vegetables- and I toyed with the harp a bit. When you noticed, you helped me play, just a bit of Mozart, and then we ate dinner together."

"Then?"

"I knitted while you read," she said simply, her hands now linking behind herself, "And you promised to teach me the harp in the morning. Then... well, you asked if you might kiss my hand... and you did... and..." She faltered. "And then I went to bed."

He traced his thin lips with a trembling finger. His eyes had glazed over.

"Were you afraid of denying me?" he whispered.

"No. No, of course not," she said. "You respect me. I have places you cannot enter, after all, and you made them such, not me. You are a perfect gentleman."

"Then why would you let me?"

She rocked her shoulders slightly with an earnest smile.

"Because you are my dearest friend. And I love you as such."

Every imperceptible tension to Erik's body loosened, as if a tight cord had been cut. His hollow features fell slack behind his false nose, until he was as human as she had ever seen him, wonderfully so. He had never let her see him like this, not even when he begged like a dog at her feet.

He collapsed to the floor in what appeared to be a proper faint. Christine cried out in alarm until he came crawling and sobbing to the hem of her skirt.

"Don't, don't," she pleaded, barely holding back her own tears. "Please don't. It's all right-"

"I cannot give you the time," he whispered out through sobs. "Forgive me, I cannot! Have mercy on your poor Erik!"

"The time? I don't care about the time; I care about you. Do you cry out of happiness?"

"I cannot give you the time!" he cried into her skirts. "I cannot!"

"The time? The time?" she said, quite perplexed. "I don't care, it's all right, do what you can, whatever you can... Here, here, let's sit together, you and I, instead of you crying on the floor. I don't want you crying there. Come sit with me, cry on me if you want, not on the floor. I can't bear it."

She managed to put her hands under his arms and bring him over to the sofa. The moment she had placed herself beside him, he bowed his head to cry into her lap. She reached to place her hand on his forehead, but realized that might only cause more tears, so she withdrew.

His tears did not seem happy, though, which distressed her. After all, she had let him kiss her the evening prior! And gladly done so. Now she was cradling him in her lap, so why did he cry as if in mourning?

He kept murmuring about the time. She paid no mind to it. His breaths were shuddering gasps still, and she feared he might have a fit if she so much as touched him. Her hands hovered over his quivering frame.

After some time of violent sobs, his tears began to run dry. He remained there, though, exhausted by the effort of crying so profusely. Christine took that moment to gently pat his shoulder.

"Do you want some tea?" she asked.

He did not reply. His eyes remained intent upon the dying fire. It had turned to embers in the time they had spent sitting there.

As if pulled by a string, he leapt to his feet. She pressed herself back into the sofa, frightened by his gaze.

"I have a gift for you," he said with a blank expression.

He turned on his heels and went into his dark bedroom. Flickering light began to issue, and then his shadow crept out, followed by himself.

"What do you have for me?" she asked with a timid smile. "And I need to go to rehearsals after you show me whatever it is. I fear I'm quite late."

"You aren't," he replied. "Oh, how slippery this mind can be! I have no gift- unless you very much want something, as I have promised. I have so many pretty things."

"If there is something you want to give, I would like to see it."

He glanced back at his bedroom. His hand twitched at his side, and he swallowed nervously. Then he shook his head violently.

"No, no, nothing," he insisted. "Nothing at all!"

"Why do you shout?"

He buried his head in his hands with a mournful exhale. She went to his side, then glanced into his bedroom, prodded by curiosity.

"What do you want to give me?" she asked in a soft voice as she placed her hand on his arm.

He shook her off and fled into the kitchen, leaving her quite bewildered.

She turned back to his bedroom. Whatever he meant to give her must have caused this, so she had to find it.

She found herself within the tomb he called a bedroom. The organ was covered in smudged papers and a few loose pens. The rest of the room, however, was almost untouched, and it confused her to peer within the coffin to find he had made it up like a bed. Everything was quite neat.

A little box rested on the black table in the corner. He had all sorts of odd scientific instruments on it, which she had inquired about and toyed with under his watchful gaze. This box, however, was of a deep blue velvet. It could fit in the palm of her hand.

She knew what lay within without opening it. It was not her right to open. It was a present, to be presented, not pried open like a clam to reach its pearl, so she set it back upon the table with trembling hands.

He must have intended to give her a proper engagement ring to replace the simple gold band. He wanted to have the promise of marriage. Her current ring only meant that she would be honest with him. Faithful. It had no ties to an engagement.

How long did she have?

She went out to knock on the kitchen door.

"Erik?" she called. "I know something has deeply upset you, but you can't keep me down here. I have to go up to rehearsals... Please, won't you tell me what has upset you so much that you've stopped the clocks?"

No reply. She crossed her arms and huffed a sigh.

If he would not come out and talk to her, then she had to go back up herself. She was already on thin ice for her many absences.

She went to the front door and found it locked. The pit of her stomach filled with heat.

"Am I your friend or your prisoner?" she demanded. "Why am I locked in?"

Nothing.

"Erik, please! At least tell me what time it is, if nothing else!"

The kitchen door opened. He had removed his false nose, and as his eyes roamed over her, she saw them catch at her crossed arms. He bowed his head in shame.

"I'll take you up to rehearsals," he whispered.

...

Christine undid the fastenings of her jacket as she entered the apartment.

"I'm so sorry I didn't return last night, Mamma," she said. "I hope you didn't worry."

The old woman fumbled with her knitting for a moment, then sighed, "I fear so much for you, my dear, always running about Paris on your own, an unmarried young woman-"

"I was with my Angel. He protects me."

She averted her eyes. Christine hung up her jacket and went to sit across from the madame, casting a few glances out the rosy window.

"The little vicomte came to ask about you," the madame said. "You haven't spoken with him in days."

"Raoul?" she whispered in reply, the blood draining from her face. "Raoul is still here?"

"Yes. Didn't you receive his letter? He sent it to your dressing room."

"I thought he had gone," she whispered in reply, visibly shaking. "His expedition left on Wednesday. He said it would. He told me it would. Told me weeks ago!"

"I thought you would be happy to hear that he is remaining here for a time. His brother wants him to learn a bit more about Parisian life rather than that of the sea."

"But he never told me!"

"It was a rather quick decision, I believe. Seemed he turned around at the docks."

"You just said that the Comte asked him to stay."

" _He_ told me that. I doubt it's true... The boy is enamored with you- improper or not, he is. Anyone can see it, even a half-blind old woman like myself."

"Mamma, the angel expected him to depart!" Christine argued fiercely. "I told you that!"

"Why are you shouting?"

"Because-!"

She gave a cry of frustration and left the room. The nurse in the dining room gave her a good long stare as she put back on her jacket.

"I'm going to get some air," Christine told her.

She grabbed her purse and set off for the nearest bakery, where she procured a cinnamon bun, and ate it on her way back. But her stomach continued to writhe.

Dinner was quiet, and Christine had spoiled her appetite already, so she excused herself early to retire. Mamma made certain she was well, and was answered with, "right as rain."

A half hour later, and there came a knock at the door. Christine was quite ready to crawl out her window and climb down the worn bricks onto the street below.

"Good evening, Monsieur le Vicomte," the nurse said to the young man at the door. "Madame Valerius is in the sitting room."

"Thank you."

Christine dug her forehead into the cream-colored wallpaper. Why was he still here?This was exactly what Erik needed to find out about now! Oh, his only friend, seeing a man behind his back!

"Is Christine here?" came the Vicomte's bright voice.

"I fear she is unwell," Mamma Valerius replied. "She retired early for the night."

"Oh... But, please, I must speak with her, if she will permit me... Is she avoiding me again? Is it this Erik fellow?"

"Erik? Who's Erik...?" Madame Valerius gasped. "Christine's seeing a man?"

Christine's door swung open and she stormed into the sitting room. Raoul sunk back into his armchair

"Do you have a death wish?" she demanded. "Do you, Raoul de Chagny? Because you're a dead man right here in this room if you do not leave now."

"Christine!" the madame cried.

Raoul stared at the livid young woman with a surprising amount of fear. "I thought... I thought you would be happy to see me, at the very least."

"Why are you here? You were supposed to leave! Days ago!"

"I... I stayed."

"Obviously."

"For you," he declared, in what was an attempt at a very romantic display, but came out as a whimper.

She folded her lips in pain.

"I didn't ask for that," she said. "I didn't ask! I have told you how to keep your head attached to the rest of you, and yet you go searching for trouble at every available moment. He thought you were leaving. I doubt he even knows you stayed. If he finds out... I don't know!"

"Will you at least tell me what has happened to you?"

"Happened?" the madame squeaked. "Christine, what is he going on about?"

"Nothing, Mamma," Christine replied. Then she sighed impatiently, "If you truly wish to know, since you are so terribly stubborn, you may meet me at the opera tomorrow, immediately after rehearsals, just offstage. That is where I can speak to you, but I promise you will not like what I have to say. And do not speak to Mamma of things you do not understand!"

"Who is Erik?" she demanded promptly. "My dear, who is Erik?"

"No one. Raoul has confused himself."

"I have not!" he declared. "You speak to me in riddles and the only things I know about you are from whispers behind your dressing room door!"

"Excuse me?" the madame interjected.

Raoul colored. He turned to Christine, who had crossed her arms.

"You will tell me here," he said simply.

"In my own home?" she retorted.

"Yes. I demand to know why I am a dead man upon setting foot in here."

She pulled the plain gold ring off her finger and brandished it in front of his red face.

"This is why," she said in a low voice.

He seemed about to cry as he managed out, "So you _are_ engaged."

"Perhaps soon, if you must know. You refuse to let anything come from my own mouth. You insist on listening in at any possible time instead of letting me tell you when I am good and ready!"

"I'm concerned for you. To whom are you engaged?"

"Why does it concern you? And moreover, I think you know. But what am I to tell him if he sees you leaving here?"

His features that had been so flushed drained entirely of color.

"Tell him I'm a friend... Are you all right?"

"If I was dying of consumption it would not be your right to know. I thought you were beginning to understand my right to privacy, but that appears to be no longer the case... but... I can assure you, for your sake, that I am quite well. I don't want you to worry... Now goodnight, monsieur."

She gestured to the door, and the vicomte left stiffly, with more than a few backward glances, many at Madame Valerius. The door had hardly shut before she demanded to know about everything, and Christine burst into tears.

She was permitted to go to bed without question.

Once the apartment was asleep, she slipped out onto the moonlit street with her hand outstretched for a hansom.

"The opera."

A couple francs, and she was deposited on the steps. She crept around to the Rue Scribe gate and slipped the key from her purse to open it.

Would Erik even come when she called? She had not the time for such useless questions. The edge of the lake was approaching fast.

"Erik?" she called.

The name reverberated back to her.

"Erik?"

She sat down in the darkness with her head in her hands.

...

Erik crept through ivy-entwined bushes to the place just below the young vicomte's balcony.

He had to see the boy, see him plain and vulnerable, asleep in his bed.

The boy should have departed. Why did he remain? Had Christine lied?

And now he had seen the boy leave her apartment. Erik often went by Christine's home, just for a moment, and never long enough that she would notice. But he had caught the boy leaving.

She had sworn not to see him outside of the opera. She had promised he had left. What more had she lied about?

His nights had been restless with visions of Christine, her blonde curls wild around a cruel red-lipped smile. The angel turned into a demon in the night, as cruel as the little sultana sitting on a pouf, peering into that little window that baked hot as the desert sun.

He had always assured himself, upon waking, that Christine was a perfect creature who would never betray him, however much his dreams filled with shrieks of cruel laughter. Hers was light as a bell. In fact, the demon in his dreams was not Christine at all, only bearing a physical resemblance, nothing more. He always assured himself of that.

The previous night, however, had been the worst so far. It was a flash, then he woke with a great intake of breath. A flash, an image, burned into his memory, of Christine, lying with her lover in a veiled bed, behaving like a proper mistress, and laughing to the boy about her cruel games with her dear friend Erik.

His greatest fear was that her kindness and devotion were all a lie.

_He had_ _to see the boy alone in his bed._

Soon he had swung himself up onto the balcony, peeking out from behind the marble railing. There was no light issuing from the boy's bedroom, so he must have been quite asleep.

Erik pressed himself up against the wall beside the wide windows, then peered into the boy's lavish chambers. He was sitting upright in bed, hands wrapped about his knees, illuminated only by the glow of street lamps outside. There was a reflection of light upon his cheek, and Erik found that the boy was crying.

That was good. Perhaps Christine had sent him away earlier, as she ought.

The boy's door opened, revealing a man of equal stature, but weathered eyes and a splash of gray in his mustache.

He said something to the boy, who kept himself curled up like a child. They spoke too quietly for Erik to hear, but the boy shut himself off from his brother's care, and soon the Comte had left.

The boy threw his bedsheets up above his head with a sigh. Erik could have sworn a word had issued, one remarkably similar to Christine's name. How many times had he himself sighed and whimpered her name between tears?

That boy had enough, though. He had no need of her, and furthermore, Christine had no need of him. All he had done was pry and whine, beg for her affection, as if he needed it, with a brother to turn to, and all the young women he could ever want who would come to his doorstep at the first invitation.

Damn him.

What did Christine see in this boy? She was not a fool enough to be taken in by his wealth and appearance. Had she cared about that, she would have become like all the other opera stars. Why, she could be covered in diamonds if she so desired! But she did not care about that- the darling girl!

But what did Christine see in _him?_ Perhaps he was just as pathetic as this little boy sleeping soundly, ignorant as to how easy his neck would snap with a single flick of the Punjab lasso.

It gave him some small amount of peace to know he held the boy's life in his hands. He would never harm him, though... without cause. Christine tied herself to certain people, so much so that he feared if any others died in addition to her father, she might break. She cared too much. It was odd, but endearing to witness. After all, she cared about him. No one had ever cared about Erik.

He craned his neck to get a better look at the boy's sleeping figure. It was then that the bedsheets shifted, a pillow overturned, and quite suddenly the barrel of a pistol was pointed directly between his glowing eyes.

_Bang!_

Erik ducked down, but a searing pain ripped through his side. He stumbled from the balcony.

He hadn't thought the boy would be capable of such a thing.

There was a bit of dark liquid seeping through his gloved fingers. He examined it for a moment with a bit of curiosity. It had been some time since he had bled.

Above him, the Comte and Vicomte argued about who or what had been shot.

The boy was more intelligent than Erik had previously thought. He ought to be more careful.

He slipped unseen through the streets of Paris, keeping his hand firm against his wound. It appeared to have only grazed him.

_Idiot._


	3. Blood and Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace Note hit a wall (which I just got over, good news) and I finished this chapter in the mean time. Please review if you’re enjoying the story!

**Author's Note:** Grace Note hit a wall (temporary- now over it), so I worked on this in the meantime. Enjoy! And please review if you want to keep this story going :)

* * *

Christine shivered at the edge of the underground lake, curled up about her knees. Tears clung to her cheeks.

Erik would not answer. Had he seen Raoul leave? But surely he wasn't watching her doorstep all day. He hadn't seen Raoul. There was no possibility.

Yet still her stomach churned.

It was hours before she heard the creaking of a gate in the distance. She rose, still sniffling while righting her skirts.

"Erik?" she called.

He did not reply as he shuffled towards her, clutching his shoulder: a skeletal ghost in the dark, illuminated only by the lamp at her feet.

"Erik?" she called again. "Where have you been? I've been waiting for hours... Are you all right?"

He turned to her in curiosity, tilting his head. "Is that you, Christine?"

"Yes, of course it's me. Where have you been?"

"Why are you here?" His breathing was labored.

"That doesn't matter- why are you clutching your arm like that? Let me see-"

"No need, my dear, it's nothing-"

She gasped as she placed her hand on his and found the bony knuckles dark and wet.

"You're bleeding!" she cried. "We need to take you to a doctor-"

"I am my own doctor, my dear. It is nothing... I tripped."

_"Tripped?"_

"Best to spare you the gruesome details... I doubt I am in the proper condition to take you in the boat, so we must go a different way."

"There's another way?"

He started shuffling away, around the edge of the lake. She followed, her stomach twisting.

"Do you need help?"

"No, my dear, I'm quite all right... Come, up these steps."

She followed him up the rough-hewn stone until they reached a little alcove. He placed his bloodied hand on the stone in front of him, and it opened like her mirror. She stared at it, a bit dazed, before following him inside.

"See this?" he warned, nodding to the trapdoor in front of them. "Never go in this way, or it will swallow you up."

"I won't."

"This is the way we go."

He brought her to a dark corner that seemed like a wall, but was actually a doorway leading down more stairs, then into a little stone room. Christine stepped back into a table. The instruments on top of it shuddered, and one tumbled to the floor with a clang.

 _"Don't pick it up!"_ he roared.

She jumped back with fright.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"It will be gone soon, and forgotten," he replied. "Never come in this way. It is only a necessity for the moment. If you became trapped in here, you might never come out."

He pushed open a hidden door, which led into the drawing room, through a cleverly-placed bookshelf. Before Christine could ask about it, though, she went to turn on the lights, revealing the dark stain seeping through Erik's jacket.

"How are you standing?" she asked, blood draining from her face. "Sit down, I'll-"

"I can tend to myself," he retorted sharply. "Now sit here and wait for me to return."

"Surely you don't expect me to believe you tripped? Did someone stab you-?"

"Quiet!" he snapped. "Don't ask again."

"I am not a child you can order around! You look about to faint! I'm helping you whether you like it or not."

She followed him into the kitchen. He grumbled something about "sensitive women" as he rustled through cabinets. His stained hand was shaking as he withdrew a few odd glass bottles, then some white cloths.

"You need to sit," she insisted, taking hold of his good shoulder. "Let me tend to you. I'm a fine nurse."

" _Christine-"_

He gasped and leaned over onto the counter, blood draining from his hollow features. A glass vial fell and shattered on the floor.

"How stubborn you are!" she declared. "Come here- you can barely stand!"

She guided him out of the kitchen and toward his armchair. He stumbled forth on quivering legs.

"No," he protested, "I'll ruin the upholstery- the table."

"Very well."

He sank into chair at the dining table, hissing in pain. She knelt down beside him and began unbuttoning his jacket.

"Christine," he pleaded. "You don't-"

"Won't you let me help you? Please?"

"It looks worse than it is, my dear. I fear it may be too much for you to bear. You have a sensitive disposition-"

"I'll step away if I feel faint, but you hardly have the strength to resist my aid, anyway."

He chuckled, then winced, "You're very determined, aren't you? So obstinate... And you're right. I can't both fight you off and mend myself at once. I would exhaust myself... but you will listen to me and leave immediately if you feel faint. Understood? And don't think you can fool me."

"I know I can't. And yes, I promise."

"Very well... if only to please your whims."

He shook off his jacket. Crimson bloomed through his white shirt. She reached to undo the buttons, but he placed a skeletal hand on hers.

"No," he said through clenched teeth.

He undid a few of the buttons and pulled his shirt down just enough to reveal his shoulder, caked in blood. It was impossible for her to make much out.

"Let me get something to clean it," she said, fighting the nausea roiling in her stomach.

He leaned his head back onto the chair and watched her hurry back into the kitchen, skirts swishing behind her. He blinked.

She cared about him. She truly cared. It was rather bizarre. He had wanted a wife but now he realized he hardly knew what that meant. It had been a fantasy, like a little play. He wanted someone to smile at him, hold hands, laugh, but there had never been anything more to it. A wife had seemed little more than a doll to play with. He hadn't considered that, if he was unwell, a wife would care for him. He certainly hadn't considered how obstinate she might be about the matter.

As Christine returned to tend to his wound, he watched her, silent save a few directions. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, and carved enough of a path that perhaps mere bandages would not suffice.

"You need a doctor," she breathed. Her face had drained of color.

"You should sit-"

She had already sunk to the floor with her head in her hands. Her skin froze then thawed in quick succession. Bile rose in her throat.

"It needs a doctor," she pleaded. "Oh, please let me fetch a doctor!"

"I've dealt with far worse on my own, my dear. Doctors talk too much, anyway... But I do need to stitch myself up, it seems. Bandages won't do on their own... Are you going to faint? You poor little thing- forgive me-"

"Erik, you've been shot! Don't pity me for feeling a little lightheaded."

"You promised to leave if you felt faint!"

"Then I feel fine. What do you need me to do?"

"Leave me- I'll manage. You're white as a sheet-"

"And so are you... now tell me what to do, or I shall bind you to the table and mend you myself."

He laughed. "I'd like to see you try, little dear... But I do need your help now. It seems you've exhausted me past the point where I can stand..." He sighed, "Boil a pot of water on the stove. Fetch me a bottle of whatever's strongest- I believe I have some vodka in the cellar- and then find needle and thread. You'll need to boil both in the water so I can stitch myself up."

"Do you want laudanum?"

"No- no, the vodka will do. I need to be somewhat alert or else I'll tear myself open even more."

"What does the bottle look like?"

"Clear with a blue seal and label."

She nodded and hurried off. He dug his hand into his shoulder, pressing hard to stop the flow. Sharp pain clawed through his veins, then throbbed beneath his hand.

Beyond him, Christine flitted back and forth, her little hands shaking. She should not be doing this. It wasn't right. She was his guest- and moreover, of a delicate disposition. He was cruel to make her endure this. Oh, damn him for it! Damn him!

"Here, needle and thread, and the vodka," she said.

"You are a fine nurse, my dear. I fear I may now be indebted... but this will not be a pretty sight. Won't you go sit on your bed while I tend to myself?"

He broke open the vodka bottle and took a swig. His tongue burned, followed quickly by his throat. It distracted from the pain.

"Christine," he insisted. She had been staring at him numbly.

"Very well," she said. "Call me when you're finished."

She turned around and went into her bedroom.

He set to work.

...

Christine jerked her head upright, having nearly drifted asleep in her armchair.

Erik lay on the sofa next to her, fast asleep. The empty vodka bottle had fallen over on the endtable, and a droplet clung to the opening.

Drinking that much would have killed her, to be sure, even with the bottle half-full to start. She could hardly manage two glasses of wine and maintain her sense. He had only lost himself towards the end of the bottle, and he fell asleep crying over something unknown. His head would be bursting in the morning, that she was certain of.

Poor dear.

She rose from the armchair and went to retrieve a knitted blanket from her closet. Erik whimpered in his sleep, forehead wrinkling in pain. She placed a hand on his head to make certain there was no fever.

Cold and dry as bone.

She sighed in relief and placed the blanket neatly over his skeletal form. He whimpered again and murmured something that sounded quite like a name.

"Erik?" she whispered. Perhaps he was waking.

"No..." he groaned. Sweat dripped from his scalp. His brow grew lined and taut. "No, no... Christine..."

"I'm here, Erik. It's all right."

His chest shuddered in a sob. He continued whimpering her name as she placed a wet rag over his forehead.

"It's all right," she whispered, lip trembling. "Shh..."

His papery eyelids snapped open, and he sat up with a start, panting. The rag tumbled from his forehead. His eyes glowed like coals, and as they turned to her, she nearly tumbled back in fright.

He groaned in pain and clutched his bandaged shoulder. She reached down for the rag.

"Why are you not in bed?" he asked as she set it back in the bowl of water.

"I wanted to make sure you were all right," she replied simply. "I couldn't sleep even if I tried... You were having a nightmare."

"Only a dream, my dear."

"You said my name."

"Ah, did I?" He leaned back into the sofa. "Do you know how, in dreams, everything is different, in some small way? People gentle as lambs turn to vicious beasts, honest girls into harlots, gentlemen to thieves..."

"Who am I in your dreams?"

His eyes were watery as he stared at her.

"You are an angel always, my dear. Even dreams cannot twist that."

She smiled. "And you are yourself in my dreams, too."

"I am in your dreams?" he asked, eyes lighting.

"Yes. But they don't make much sense, and sometimes you can be very strange indeed..." She glanced at his shoulder. "We should put your arm in a sling, don't you think?"

"My dear, I'm past being troubled with. I've been mended... But you, on the other hand, have rehearsals in the morning, and need rest. What's the time?"

She turned to the clock. The hands turned- evidently he had fixed them.

"Four," she replied. "Perhaps I should try to sleep a bit."

He nodded, eyes downcast. Before she could ask why, he bent into himself and his chest quaked with sobs. A hand covered his face from view while his other lay to the side.

"You need laudanum," she said. "I'll run and get some-"

"Why are you here?" he pleaded. "You knew you had rehearsals in the morning- why wait for me? For hours? Why?"

"I think you're unwell, Erik. Do you want laudanum? Are you in pain?"

He felt the knitted blanket with his fingertips, timid as a child. Tears streamed down his hollow cheeks.

She knelt down next to him and reached for his hand. He turned to her.

"Why do you cry?" she asked.

He sniffled, one hand still covering his face. "You are so good to your poor Erik... so very, very good... and he forces you to come down here, to tend to him, like a slave- it's not right, it's not right-"

"I chose to come down here. I chose to care for you-"

"-and all because you feared I would doubt you, when it was that damned boy's fault alone-"

"I can barely understand you- perhaps you're still a bit drunk-"

"-you are the most faithful woman in France, and I am your slave, Christine- I'm not worthy of being tended to." He shifted his legs over the sofa with a grimace. "Not worthy of sitting in your presence."

"Please don't get up. Please, Erik-"

"I have a gift for you. I must retrieve it. You can do what you like with it... whatever you please. It was meant for a purpose, but now it's to pay my debt to you... though I fear it shall fall short of the service you've rendered me."

He shuffled over to his bedroom, clutching his bandaged shoulder. She folded her lips as he disappeared into the dark chamber.

Was he fetching the ring? Her heart leapt into her throat and her eyes began to water.

He crept out from his bedroom, bent over slightly, shuffling across the floorboards. She rose from the floor.

"Sit," he commanded hoarsely, gesturing to his favorite armchair.

She obeyed, if only to please him. He sank to his knees before her, the blue velvet box clutched in his skeletal hand. He brought the trembling thing into view.

She placed her hands over his, enclosing the box. His eyes widened in wonder.

"Not now," she whispered. "Please. When you are well, then-"

"No, no, it is a gift- oh, how foolish I am! You can sell it, wear it, throw it into the Seine. It is payment of my debt. Nothing more."

She shook her head, tears clouding her vision.

"I'm not stupid, Erik," she said. "Why do you always think you can trick me? I understand what you want. More than you could ever know... I know how it hurts you when I say I shall never marry. I see it in your eyes... I won't accept this as a gift. It is not a gift. If you feel indebted, then pay it another way- but you are not indebted. I helped you of my own free will... Do you think it doesn't pain me to see you hurt? Do you think I could sit idly by while you stumbled about?"

"You are too good," he whispered. "How are you so good? So kind and gentle?"

"You say these things, but you know I can be quite cruel-"

"Not cruel, never cruel. Stubborn, yes, but never cruel. You always mean well..." He glanced at the mantle clock. "Forgive me. I have kept you from sleeping, and you can't be late again tomorrow. Go to bed. I'm in no pain."

"Couldn't I fetch you some laudanum? It will help me sleep better knowing you have it."

"If it will help you sleep..." He sighed. "Very well."

She hurried into the kitchen as he stared blankly at the far wall, clutching the box. Then he glanced over at the dining table, to the little goldfish drifting lazily about its bowl.

He looked down at the ring box and popped open the lid, watching candlelight dance off the facets of the diamond. It had been an easy choice of stone- a stone as clear and pure as Christine.

Should he tell her the truth of his injury? If she learned the boy had shot him, perhaps she would despise the little thing for hurting her dear Erik. Oh, to think of her cursing his name! To hear her damn the vicomte- damn him for hurting her dear friend! Yes, that was what she always called him: her dear friend, Erik. The boy was only a childhood fancy.

He watched the ring sparkle, and imagined it on her little white finger. Her in an ivory dress, with flowers in her hair, her freckles hidden behind a lace veil...

Dreams, all dreams. And none of his dreams had ever come to pass.

But as she returned with the laudanum, he couldn't help but wonder if, perhaps, the world would grant him some happiness after all.


	4. Hard Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my computer broke, and then got fixed, but now I’m in school, so I have no time... Just know that updates are going to be random.
> 
> Enjoy!

Erik sat at the dining table, his hollow cheek pressed against the varnished wood. He watched the goldfish lazily flick his fins, drifting about like an autumn leaf.

He took another swig of whiskey. Christine had tied his arm up in a sling before she left, and promised to check in on him. But she had to visit her mamma.

His eyes burned and he sniffled, half-drunk.

If only that old woman would die already. She had been ill for so long, and once she died, perhaps Christine would want to stay with him. She wouldn’t have a reason to leave. He could have her all to himself.

Ah, but then she would mourn the old woman, and cry and cry and cry. It was a horrible thought. She still hadn’t recovered from her father’s death, and that was over five years ago.

He had never understood mourning. Seemed tiresome- crying and wearing black for months, as some ritual gesture. But after knowing Christine, the very thought of her passing...

He took another swig. The alcohol stung his nose as he swallowed.

She was the only thing worth living for.

“Little monsieur, am I mad?” he asked, staring into the glass bowl. “Hm?”

He tapped on it and the fish swam round in fright.

“Yes- it’s so easy to incite fear, isn’t it?” he chuckled, glancing toward the amber bottle in his hand. “One little tap... even just a glance... but love... You can’t even comprehend love, can you? You perceive food and fear, that is all...” He chuckled and took another gulp of burning whiskey. “Ah- I am mad! Talking to a fish- how ridiculous! I am drunk, I fear, but I’ve never stooped so low as this. And Christine thought you would make me less lonely...”

He pushed the half-empty aside and staggered up from his chair with a mock bow.

“If you’ll excuse me, little monsieur. You’re not mich for conversation.”

He went into his bedroom with the intent of composing, and then sat down, stared at the keys of the organ, and realized that was impossible with only one good arm. So he went to his desk instead, head lolling from whiskey and laudanum, and began to cry.  
...

Knocking echoed through Christine’s skull. She lifted her head from the dressing table, blinking through half-lidded eyes. 

Rehearsals had run quite late. She must have fallen asleep.

She kneaded her eyes with her wrists.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Raoul,” came a quiet voice.

“One moment.”

She tied the sash of her dressing gown. They had been trying on costumes all afternoon.

When she opened the door, she found him shuffling the front of his boot against the floorboards. He ceased immediately.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“You told me I could come see you.”

“Oh.” 

It had quite slipped her mind.

“You look tired,” he said.

“I’ve had a long day,” she replied.

“Of course.”

He swallowed. 

“I’m... sorry, for yesterday,” he said. “And everything before that.”

Her hand slipped from the doorframe.

“Oh,” she breathed.

He wound his hands together before noticing this nervous tick, and thrust his hands into his pockets.

“I’ve just been worried,” he said. “I don’t want you to be taken advantage of.”

“I know... And I’m sorry, too. I didn’t want to keep you in the dark, but... it’s all so difficult to explain.”

“Could you at least try?”

She stepped away from the door and gestured to an armchair by her dressing table. 

“I’ll do my best,” she said. “Just please try to understand.”

He sat down with her. She cast a glance at her reflection in the mirror, out of habit more than anything.

“I know you’re worried about me,” she said. “I disappeared for two weeks, then said I would tell you everything, and then... I thought it would be best to let you leave with a clear head is all. I thought you could go away and forget all about it... But since you’ve decided to stay, well, I suppose I should keep my promise. But only to remedy your concerns.”

He nodded and leaned forward a bit. She glanced down into her lap.

“When I came to the opera house,” she said, “I gained an eccentric teacher of sorts, the one Mamma calls my good genius. His name is Erik, as you’ve gathered, and he’s responsible for my success. But he keeps to himself, hardly even goes out-of-doors, that’s why you’ve never seen him. And after all, most geniuses are a little odd, aren’t they? And he is a genius- an architect, composer, inventor- and he sings like an angel.”

“I know.”

Her brow furrowed. He glanced down at his lap.

“The night of the masquerade,” he explained. “I heard him.”

“You heard him?”

“Yes.”

She avoided the obvious “how?” and continued on.

“Then you understand why-“

“Why you love him,” he interjected.

“It’s not so simple as that. There’s far more to it... He... He’s deformed. That’s why he keeps to himself. He was abandoned, I think, by his family, I can’t tell. He won’t say much about it... But he helped build this opera house- built himself a home within, hidden, so that no one would trouble him. Wouldn’t you do the same, if everyone in your life had shunned you? Wouldn’t you want to be alone...? And yet, even though he’s made it so, he’s lonely. So very lonely... so I visit him. Often. He was my teacher at first, for months, then my friend, and he admitted he loved me. But he kept his face hidden at first, even his identity, and of course I wanted to know who he truly was. I wanted to see his face. I thought, perhaps, he was playing a joke on me... but no. 

“I can’t even describe his face to you. He’s built like a skeleton, with sickly-yellow skin and... golden eyes... I don’t know what condition he has, but it’s made people shun him all his life. Not even his own family loved him... It almost made me shun him... But we rebuilt our friendship over the course of two weeks, and I grew accustomed to his face. 

“He gave me this ring. I believe he gave it to me to keep other men at bay. It’s an easy trick... But since he’s been rejected by the world, he wants me all to himself. I fear I’m the only one who’s treated him with kindness. And he treats me well, too. He’s a proper gentleman, just a little eccentric.”

“You told me,” Raoul said, “that I could never visit you outside the opera house, that it was dangerous. Is he dangerous?”

“He has survived in a cruel world. The only way to do so is to learn cruelty as well... But he’s not cruel to me, and he keeps away from others. I only fear that he doesn’t trust me, and if he sees us meeting together... I’m not going to risk that.”

“But do you swear he’s never hurt you?”

She faltered.

“Did he hurt you at all while you were with him? Those two weeks?”

“No... no, I wouldn’t say he did.”

“And were you with him of your own volition?”

She put her head in her hands. “It’s so very difficult to explain, Raoul- and I’ve already said too much. I don’t want to upset you more-“

“But you’ve hardly said anything. Did he hold you captive?”

“Imagine you had been despised by everyone your whole life, and one person treats you with kindness. Wouldn’t you cling to them, too?”

“So you were his captive?”

She faltered. “I was.”

“Then why didn’t you run? Once you were free, why didn’t you?”

“Because by the end of those two weeks, he had become very dear to me. As dear as you are. He begged my forgiveness, everyday, like a dog. And he still can’t bear to let me go, but he does it, every time, because he loves me.”

“And do you love him?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t live without him.”

“Is it because he’s ugly that you don’t love him? If he were handsome, would you?”

“This isn’t about what he looks like! And this isn’t about love... Oh, I’ve worried you even more, haven’t I?”

“Why haven’t you told the police?”

“Oh, see, you don’t understand!” she cried. “You don’t understand any of it- how could you? You have to know him. He’s not like any other man. He truly is a genius. After I had seen his face, and reeled in horror, he played a piece that was so horribly beautiful that I forgot my terror. I forgot everything. And if you knew what he looked like, you wouldn’t believe I could forget- but I did! He truly is a genius, Raoul. You’ve heard him sing- surely you know?”

The poor boy’s blue eyes traced the floorboards.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I remember watching you and your Papa together. Him playing and you singing in the parlor. You were never happier... And I tried to learn the violin, I tried, I wanted to share that with you, but I... I could never.”

He lifted his eyes and she found them filled to the brim with tears. He rose from his chair.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Philippe will be wondering where I am-“

“Wait, Raoul.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. He turned around.

They stared at each other a moment, then she embraced him, wrapping her arms about his shoulders. He stood still for a moment before leaning his head into her shoulder and reciprocating the motion.

“Don’t think I don’t love you,” she whispered. “But we’re not children anymore.”

She pulled away from him to look into his glassy eyes.

“Don’t let me make you unhappy,” she said. “Please. I couldn’t bear it.”

He kissed her hand. “I know... Forgive me, I’ve kept you too long.”

“There’s nothing to forgive... Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

He stepped away to leave, then faltered. She tilted her head.

“Did you forget something?” she asked.

“You’ll think it ridiculous.”

“Well, say it anyway.”

“You said he had... yellow eyes?”

“Golden, yes.”

“It’s just... Is Erik an... agile fellow, by any chance?”

She blinked. “That’s an odd question.”

“It’s only... I thought I saw something, last night, on my windowsill. Philippe said it was a cat, but-“

“Did you shoot at it?” she whispered.

“I...” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I might have. How did you-?”

“Oh, God-“

“He was outside my window, wasn’t he?” he exclaimed, blue eyes widening. “It wasn’t a cat-“

“You shot him!” Her fury sent him two steps backwards. “You shot at a figure outside your window- Raoul, you could have killed someone! What if you were hallucinating? Hit some poor woman across the way hanging up her laundry?”

“I didn’t shoot to kill- I aimed for-“

“I don’t care what you aimed for- it was dark, you couldn’t see, and you decided to shoot at a figure!”

“It was self-defense! You told me he was a dangerous man! And why was he there, stalking me-?”

“Because he is protective of me! He must have seen you leaving my apartment. I told him I wouldn’t see you outside the opera house- he already has little enough trust for me as is!”

“How can you trust a man who doesn’t trust you?”

“Oh- you still don’t understand! You don’t know what it’s like to be abandoned, do you? To be poor and friendless? Moving from place to place- you don’t understand! Trust is built piece by piece and now it’s gone.”

“Why do you seem more upset with me than with him?” He shot back. “He was stalking me! Anyone shoots at a trespasser-“

“He is my friend! You shot my friend- so yes, I’m upset! But no, he should not have been there, and I’ll speak to him about it. But you, monsieur, get out of my dressing room this instant!”

“Christine, I swear, I never meant-“

“Leave!”

He turned and left. She shut the door and returned to her dressing table, staring blankly at the pale wood. Then she collapsed upon the surface and began to cry.

Erik had seen him. And more than that, he had gone to Raoul’s balcony- stood there- and for what purpose? To kill him? Surely not, surely...

Did he truly have so little trust in her? To betray her like that?

And now just as she had been repairing her friendship to Raoul, she had ruined that, too. All ruined.

She just wanted to go home to Mamma.

...

She explained her absence as best she could to Mamma Valerius, who was coughing rather more than usual. The nurse said it was nothing to worry about- perhaps the onset of a cold, nothing more. She had opened up a few windows to improve the air. That would help.

Despite her exhaustion, Christine found herself tossing and turning in and out of odd dreams. She woke late and hurried to dress.

Erik would worry if she wasn’t on time for her visit.

“Where are you off to now?” Mamma Valerius asked.

“I’m meeting a friend.”

“But you haven’t been to church in weeks.”

“You know I can’t stand these Parisian churches. I’ve gone from one to the next and they all care more about what dresses and jewels they’re wearing than God. I doubt most of them even listen to the sermon.”

“But you do, and it’s good for you. Who cares what they think?”

Christine lowered her gaze. “I’ll go later and pray alone, in the quiet... but I have to go now. I’ll be back this evening.”

“You’re always gone now. Your eyes are so tired.”

“I’m fine. And I’m sorry I’ve been gone so often- especially with you ill. But I won’t be gone any other nights this week. I swear it... Do you want me to bring back some cough syrup?”

“Annette can fetch it for me. It’s what we pay her for, after all... Be sure to relax, my dear, while you’re out. It’s a lovely day.”

“I will... I love you, Mamma.”

The old woman smiled as Christine kissed her forehead, then went out the door into the bright sunlight. She shielded her eyes a moment before hailing a brougham.

...

Composing with one hand was rather tedious. Preparing breakfast for Christine, even more so. Erik nearly dropped the little almond cakes she liked so much. Nearly.

The pain was quite manageable. He had become quite used to pain and after the immediate aftermath of being shot, it was not so terrible. He had experienced far worse: broken knees, fractured ribs, torture by knives, torture by whips. A bullet was hardly memorable.

He had realized his stupidity about his pain, however, shortly after Christine left. He hadn’t wanted her to worry about him, as he was hardly worth it, but by making her think he was all right, she had left. Perhaps he should have pretended to be even worse- then she would have stayed and fretted about him.

He smiled faintly at the thought. Ah, but to let her serve him, how could he allow that? The angel had already done too much... What was he then to do? She would leave if she thought him all right, and be his nurse if not. Both were unthinkable.

The grandfather clock chimed. He sat up and hurried outside, as if he might catch a glimpse of her over the inky waters, through the stone pillars.

He would have to go the other way, of course. He couldn’t possibly row with one arm.

He clambered through the secret passage, heart pounding in excitement. She was always on time- he knew she would be waiting at the stone bank for him, only for him! And he would bring her home and show her the lovely breakfast he had set out, and she would fret about him, like a wife, just like a wife-

As he shut the stone door behind him, a voice called his name, in a disgruntled manner.

“What do you want now, daroga?” he growled, turning to find the man holding a lantern aloft near his astrakhan. “Put that silly thing down- what, you think I can break your neck with one arm?”

The Persian’s jade eyes narrowed. “You could break my neck with none... You hurt yourself?”

“What does it look like, you great booby? I thought you were spying on me, yet you don’t know this? Now, why are you troubling me?”

“Out of concern.”

Erik barked a laugh. “Oh! Concern?”

“For Miss Daaé, but now for you, too. What happened?”

“I tripped.”

“You... tripped?”

“Yes, you great booby. Are you going deaf in your old age?”

“Not deaf, no. But how could tripping lead to this?” He gestured to Erik’s arm.

“By tripping onto something, obviously. Stop asking such stupid questions. You’re going to make me late, and Christine is waiting.”

“And what of Miss Daaé?”

“What do you mean? You’ve seen her go to and from my house- happy to visit me. She loves visiting me. She does so many times a week of her own volition.”

“Do you still plan to marry the poor girl?”

“You ask too many questions!” Erik roared. “Why does my life concern you so? Yours doesn’t concern me- if you died tomorrow I wouldn’t care. Do you just enjoy being a flea on my back?”

“I’m your friend, Erik. I want to make sure you and Miss Daaé are well. That is all.”

“You have a very irritating way of going about it.”

“Well, I can’t knock on your door or send you a letter, so what else can I do?”

“Go drown in the lake. The siren can deliver your message.”

He started towards the stairs with a sense of finality, then paused.

“I’m no idiot, daroga,” he said. “You’re here to try and find another way into my house, not out of concern for my wellbeing. Well, go that way and you’ll kill yourself. But I would hate to have to drag your corpse out with one arm, so could you at least have the decency to wait a few weeks?”

“I have no intention of barging into your home uninvited. I mean to solicit an invitation first.”

“Well, write the request on your gravestone. You may as well have it engraved now, since you’re so keen to die... Do not let me catch you here again. You know I have trouble remembering promises.”

The Persian nodded. “I do.”

Erik continued down the steps. The Persian lifted his lantern towards the hidden door, then decided better of it and walked back down, remaining a ways behind Erik. Their paths diverged, and the Persian headed up into the opera.

As Erik approached the edge of the lake, lifting his lantern, he found that Christine was nowhere to be seen. He glanced at his watch.

She was late.

He tapped his foot, then lifted the lantern to look for her in the darkness. There was no sign of movement.

He began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth, a bobbing shadow in the dark. His heart hammered in his chest.

Had something happened to her? He glanced at his watch.

Five minutes.

He resumed pacing. His breathing quickened and the oxygen was sucked out of his lungs. Where was she? Had she lied? Forgotten? Surely not- she was never late, never! Something had delayed her.

Ten minutes.

What if she had been run over by a carriage? The image of her mangled body- the very idea- made his eyes sting and water. Or perhaps a thief had accosted her?

Fifteen minutes.

Horrible ideas swirled in his head until he sank to his knees, sobbing in the darkness. Then the gate just beyond creaked open.

“Erik?” Christine called.

He rubbed his eyes and lifted the lantern. She approached from the Rue Scribe gate, half-running-half walking towards him. Her cheeks were red and she had flowers in her arms.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I lost track of time. I just wanted to get something to keep the place bright while you’re healing-“

“That’s all right, my dear. They’re lovely. Though usually a gift for women, yes?”

“Or those sick or injured. To help lift their spirits.”

“You are a far more precious gift than flowers, my dear, to lift my spirits.”

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

“Come,” he said. “I have breakfast prepared for you.”

“Oh- you didn’t have to, especially with your arm-“

“It was no trouble. I’m perfectly well.”

“No you’re not. You don’t need to say that to me- you were shot... I wish I could have stayed longer, but I had to visit Mamma. She has a horrible cough now, poor dear. And then all next week are performances, so I’ll hardly be able to come at all... Oh, it’s all so tiresome!”

“The operas?”

“All of it. Your arm, Mamma’s cold, Raoul’s pestering, and yes, the operas. I wish I could just perform at my leisure. It always feels so rushed, and it drains me. Music shouldn’t drain me.”

“Do you want to quit?”

“No. No, I love it, I only... It can be tiresome is all. I wish I had more time. And these new managers seem to only care about making money- not art. And the ballet instructor they hired...”

Her eyes grew dark. She lowered her head as they walked through the passage.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be prattling on.”

“I enjoy your prattling. Far better than silence, my dear. Your voice is a lovely thing.”

She smiled faintly. “You’re very sweet.”

“So- they have hired a new ballet instructor?”

Lines formed on her forehead. Her smile dissipated.

“Yes,” she said.

“And I take it you do not approve?”

She shut her eyes a moment.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Surely he’s not that terrible?” he chuckled.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

He faltered in surprise at the harshness of her tone and continued on, despite his sinking heart. 

She followed him up the secret passageway, through the not-doors and the strange rooms. This time, she touched nothing.

He brought her into the dining room. The table was set with cakes, fruit, and in the center of it all, the little goldfish, staring.

“It looks lovely,” she said. “Though please don’t put yourself through so much trouble-“

“It’s no trouble, my dear. Not at all. You deserve far more than this, little empress.”

He pulled out her chair and she sat down at the table. He assumed the seat opposite.

“I do need to speak with you about something,” she said. “Raoul and I spoke for a time in my dressing room yesterday.”

He dropped an almond cake to the floor and whispered a curse.

“Yes?” he said as brightly as he could manage.

She set her hands in her lap.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” she said.

“Ah... the truth about what, my dear?”

“Erik,” she sighed, “why were you on his balcony?”

His eyes darted about like an animal in a trap. He picked up the fallen almond cake.

“You swore to me he would be leaving,” he said. “You promised.”

“He turned around at the docks. I don’t know what he was thinking-“

“He wasn’t thinking. He loves you.”

He said this with such sorrow that she looked up into his deep-set eyes, wet with tears like ink.

“Then he’s a fool,” she said. “He could never marry me.”

“Then he wishes to use you and discard you like some opera whore-“

“He’s not his brother- he doesn’t want a mistress. He just doesn’t understand that being in love with someone isn’t always grounds for upending one’s life. Everything is so black and white to him- either I love him or I don’t. It’s all so much more complicated than that.”

“Do you love him?”

“Not since we were children. Now I only want him as my friend, though it’s becoming tiresome... But no, I do not love him. Especially after last night. Imagine shooting into the dark like a madman- though I’m certain you gave him a fright... Was that why you were there? To frighten him?”

“He keeps bothering you.”

“He’s concerned about me. We were very close before... I fear I’ve been quite cruel to him now...”

“You could never be cruel to him, my dear, nor to anyone. Here, have some cakes.”

“Promise me you won’t do anything like that again.”

“You know how I feel about promises.”

“Even so. I want you to promise never to seek out any of my acquaintances for any reason.”

“I cannot promise that, my dear. What if they are a danger to you?”

“I still ask it... I would be very happy if you could promise me this.”

“Very well. Since you’re so set on the matter, I swear it.”

“Thank you.”


	5. Chrysanthemums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short- but I liked how it ended up so this is what you get.

Christine returned home to find the doctor speaking with Mamma’s nurse, Annette. Both turned their heads upon her entry, their eyes expressionless as glass.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, her heart thudding in her ear.

Annette bit her lip. The doctor slid his spectacles up his nose, scratching his gray hair in the same motion. His eyes averted a moment before meeting Christine's gaze.

"Perhaps you should sit down," he said, extending his hand to the chintz sofa.

She did so, mindlessly gripping the fabric of her skirt over her knee. The doctor sat down across from her in an armchair- the one Mamma used when she felt well enough to stand. He pulled out a leather-bound notebook and turned over some pages.

"At her age," he said. "You understand any illness is serious?"

Christine nodded.

"But she is a strong woman," he continued. "You know I have often warned the worst and she has overcome it.”

"Yes."

"But this time I do not think it is a mere cold. It could be pneumonia." He glanced down at his journal. "Annette sent for me this morning, shortly after you left. She found her coughing in intermittent bursts, to the point of her lips… turning blue. I examined her this afternoon and found that her heartbeat was rather quick, and she had a mild fever- only mild. But what truly concerns me is the coughing. She typically coughs without heavy wheezing, but now she has that, which would suggest pneumonia."

"Are there any treatments?"

He removed his spectacles. "Mademoiselle, if it is pneumonia, I fear the best thing to do is make her comfortable. I've already instructed Annette on proper doses for the pain... I recommend you write to her remaining relatives and inform them."

"How much longer could she have?"

"Anywhere from a few days to a week, I should think. Though she may hold out for an entire month, knowing her. We shall see... But she does not appear to be in much pain. The medication is working in that respect."

"That's good," Christine said in a small voice.

"And I understand you have a weak disposition. Do you require anything in that regard?"

"My disposition is fine. But I appreciate your concern."

"Even so, let me leave you a list of medications and doses I would recommend for your health, too."

He began to write on a fresh page. She glanced back towards Mamma's open door as hacking coughs echoed into the living room.

Her own throat constricted. She drifted into Mamma's bedroom, knees threatening to buckle.

"Mamma?" she said, taking the woman's frail hand as she sat down on the bed beside her.

The madame was racked with some more coughs before settling. Her eyelids were low, but they crinkled at the edges as she managed a smile.

"Christine," she said in a crackling voice, "has the doctor worried you again?"

"Yes... but this time-"

"My dear, don't worry. Don't trouble yourself. You've been worried for so long. I would hate to be the cause of more-" Mamma Valerius coughed twice, then sucked in a breath as they settled. "My soul is ready, my dear, if that brings you comfort. But I don't think I am going just yet."

The doctor walked in, cleaning his spectacles with a velvet cloth. Mamma smiled weakly again and rubbed the back of Christine's hand.

"I'm going to perform another examination before I leave," the doctor said. “I want to be sure her fever is still mild.”

He left immediately after, with only a solemn nod as he walked out. Christine pulled up a chair beside Mamma Valerius, again reaching to take her hand.

"Has Annette sent for the pastor yet?" Christine asked.

"My dear,” Mamma chuckled hoarsely, “I should have some time. We can send for him tomorrow- don't trouble yourself. You need to rest as much as I... However, I fear we ought to have the conversation-"

She was consumed with hacking coughs. Christine watched helplessly, rubbing the old woman's trembling knuckles.

"I'm all right," Mamma said as they subsided. "Don't fret- you've gone even whiter... But we need to talk about your future, if I am to pass."

"My future?"

"You need a guardian of a sort. I have hardly been much of one, bound to this bed as I am, but for a young woman, it is required, especially if you wish to continue in the opera without a patron- a choice I am quite pleased with, my dear, and hope you can maintain… But the fact remains that you must have some form of guardian.”

"I can care for myself, Mamma-“

"I know you can, my dear. And I know you've made your position quite clear on marriage, but... It would comfort me greatly if you at least started searching for a husband."

"The Angel has said-"

"He knows you should marry eventually. If he is truly of God, he understands this.”

"But I cannot be married and in the opera."

"My dear,” she chuckled, “surely you don't expect to be in the opera your whole life? You are young now. You do not truly understand the necessity of marriage. There are so many comforts in it, my dear, as with my husband and me. You will have someone to provide for you, cherish you, and give you children, of course. I know very well that you will find no true joy in life without them. Even my husband and I, happy as we were, found no truer delight than taking you in… Just promise me, my dear, that you will be married before it is too late. I want you to be taken care of.”

"I have the Angel. He cares for me.”

"He will not stay with you forever. He will leave once your voice has achieved its potential- just as he left your father. And then you'll need to marry... Unless you intend to become a spinster?"

Christine twisted her hands in her skirts.

"I'm just," she said, "not ready yet."

"I know... You are young. You do not understand yet… I only want your word that, in a few years, you shall be married to a good man."

Christine faltered a moment, then nodded.

"Yes, Mamma."

She kissed her forehead and found it covered in cold sweat.

...

The Ghost's salary was due. Erik set aside his pen and rubbed his temples, then his shoulder over the bandage.

It was healing up well- only sore now. It stung when he pressed a knuckle into it, burning, tearing, and he pulled away.

He could play at the piano if he kept his shoulder steady- of course, only trivial pieces to please Christine, none of his own passionate, mad works. The organ would be impossible until he was fully healed.

He glanced at his pocket watch. The managers would be in their office until noon- or perhaps one, since it was Monday. Best not wait too long, though- they were sedentary beings and never worked more than the bare minimum.

He started up, through the hidden stone doors, until the floors turned to wood planks and voices echoed through the walls. Here he crept along, towards the stage.

Another glance at his watch. Christine ought to be rehearsing, and he had a moment to see her in the glow of the stage lamps, wandering about the stage like a lost thing. It always took her some time to gain her footing.

The silence was broken by a Meyerbeer ballet, and he stifled a groan. He went up into the flies, a creeping shadow among the hooks and ropes.

Below, the ballet girls rehearsed in their half-finished costumes, clambering across the stage like a herd of cows. The orchestra had improved somewhat- it appeared they had replaced that second cellist.

Christine would be rehearsing later, he was certain. Perhaps they had changed the schedule. For now, he needed to collect his salary.

He crept back down, towards the manager's office. The dreadful ballet began to fade, blocked by cold marble, and he heard the beginning of the manager’s voices as he approached the hidden wall behind the crimson office.

"We should break her contract," Moncharmin said.

Erik stopped. He continued until he was at the thinnest part of the wall, where he could hear them plainly.

"Do you know how much we would lose?" Richard retorted. "There's not been a single seat empty for her performances."

"But we've lost that money anyway. She'll be gone six months, I should think, if not longer. The girl has such a weak disposition. And by that time-"

"Her return will be a sensation. We can charge double for every seat-"

"You think that will make up for the losses? And that is only _if_ she returns. Do you realize how many times she has disappeared? Arrived late for rehearsal, or not at all? And she's always ill-"

"It has never affected her performances. She is always sublime... You know I'm right, Richard. She's adored by the public more than even La Carlotta was in her prime."

"Perhaps we'll discover another young soprano in her absence... but I must agree that her contract should remain." He sighed, "For appearances, if nothing else… I'll speak to Madame Deveraux. She may know a few chorus girls who could fill the gap for a time- and perhaps they'll show more respect for rehearsals."

Erik pulled his ear away from the wall.

Christine was taking a leave of absence. Without informing him. It was not a great leap to determine why. After all, she had mentioned her benefactress being quite ill.

He would have to act swiftly. Christine was a young woman- even strong-willed as she was, she could easily fall into the boy's arms for comfort. Moved by grief, she may forgive him his errs, and that could not happen. He would kill the boy first- if it came to that.

He started back down, having quite forgotten his salary. He had to make plans.

As he crept around a stone wall, distracted by his thoughts, lantern light crept out around the corner. He ducked into a crevice, swearing under his breath. His nails dug into the grit of the wall.

The daroga sighed just beyond, mumbling something in Farsi. His footsteps continued, and the lantern light vanished behind a stone column.

_What was that imbecile up to now?_

Erik slipped around the corner, smooth as a shadow. The daroga's dark astrakhan stood out clearly against the orange glow of the lantern.

He could kill him. It was an exciting thought, but he pushed it back down.

"Daroga?" he growled.

The man gave a start, nearly dropping his lantern. Erik smirked beneath his mask, leaning against the stone column.

"I've been looking for you," the daroga said.

"For me? Why on earth would you do that?"

"I heard about Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Ah- still prying into my affairs?" His tone turned icy. He assumed his full height, pushing away from the wall. "Have you spoken to her? I forbade you to- I forbade you! You deceitful-!"

"I have not spoken to her- I swear it! I promised not to meddle in your relationship with her... so long as I have no reason to fear for her safety."

"Ah. I see. Well, you certainly needn't worry about that.” He tilted his head. "What do you want, daroga?"

"I want to help you."

Erik barked a laugh. "Help me? With what?"

" Have you ever dealt with a grieving woman?"

Erik picked at where his jacket sleeve poked out from his sling.

"Erik-?”

"You know I haven't," Erik snapped. "What, have you come here to mock me?"

"No. I want to help you comfort her."

"I decline your generous offer."

He started down the tunnel.

"Her mother is dying, Erik," the daroga called after him. "You honestly think you can help her through that?"

Had his shoulder been well, Erik would have grabbed the daroga by the throat and pushed him against the wall until he gagged. Given his situation, he simply clenched his fist.

"I comforted her before," Erik growled, turning round.

"That was different. You were behind a wall- nothing more than a voice. You know this is different... Do you want my help or not?"

"You would do more harm than good. I doubt Christine would enjoy finding your strangled corpse floating in the lake."

"Would you cease this? I'm trying to help you! Don't you think I care? I am your friend! But I will not force you to follow my advice. I am only offering.”

"What a nuisance you are!" Erik cried. "A flea on my back- offering to _help_ me! And you don't know Christine- I do! I know her better than anyone. She is to be my wife, you know, eventually-"

"Has she agreed to this idea?"

Erik slammed his fist against the stone wall.

"Damn you- you still think she doesn't love me! Is it that outrageous? Perhaps it is, yes- but tell me, daroga, how often it is that a woman has a dear friend that does not become her husband? Hm? It's only natural- and I have means, you know. She'll need someone to care for her once her benefactress dies-"

"I recommend you wait some time before broaching the subject-"

"Did I ask for your recommendation?" Erik growled. "What- you think it won't comfort her to know she’ll be provided for?”

"Just let her grieve, Erik. Send her flowers, don't talk too much, just let her grieve. You need to be patient with her... This is not the time for a marriage proposal. And regardless, you have to prepare yourself for a refusal."

Erik scoffed. "A refusal? My dear daroga, she is an intelligent woman. I've already made arrangements for a proper house."

The daroga's jade eyes widened. "You mean to live aboveground?"

"Of course! You think I would keep her down here? My own Persephone? No. I intend to please my wife... When she sees the house, she'll be perfectly happy, and remain so.”

"Erik," the daroga sighed. "You worry me."

Erik laughed. "Oh, do I?"

He laughed again, waving away the daroga.

"Now, I must go make preparations. I recommend not butting into my affairs- especially since my shoulder is nearly healed."

"We both know you could kill me one-handed."

"Well, don't give me any reason to and you needn't worry."

Erik started down the tunnel, still chuckling. The daroga brought a hand to his temple, kneading between his eyes.

_That poor girl._

...

Christine left a letter for Erik in her dressing room, to inform him of Mamma Valerius condition. She gathered up her things and brought them back to the apartment.

Intermittent coughing fits echoed in every room. Christine sat at her side, reading scripture, singing, and talking about nothing in particular: Mamma just wanted to hear her voice.

“-and Charlotte is engaged,” Christine said as she worked on embroidering a canary. “He’s a doctor, I think, and she seems happy, far more than she was before… I shall be sad to see her leave. She was the best with the costumes- I never needed more than one fitting with her. The others were sometimes still taking in waists a few days before performances…”

She never left Mamma’s side, even once falling asleep in her chair. This meant, of course, that she was the first one to see her that morning, a week later. She had hardly awoken, eyes still heavy with sleep, and reached out to take Mamma’s hand, only to find it cold and unyielding. The crinkles around her eyes, the lines of her face, all had turned hard and ashen. The brightness of her soul had left, just as it had Papa, leaving an empty resemblance.

The service was the following evening. It was a small affair. Not many tears. She had lived a full life, after all. A good life.

To Christine's surprise, Raoul came, with two vases of expensive flower arrangements, which were placed beside the cherry-wood casket. He kept his eyes averted, for most of the service, but she embraced him, suddenly choking on sobs. He stood there a moment in shock before wrapping his arms about her.

The family dispersed afterward, trickling out of the church doors. Raoul kissed her hand, and suddenly she was alone, save Mamma in her cherry-wood casket. Sun streamed in through the painted glass cross, turning the pews blue, gold, and pink, but all Christine could see was the ashen face beyond.

The burial was the next day. Madame Valerius was placed beside her husband. Christine sat on a bench overlooking the stone for some time, watching the workers cover her in fresh earth.

She hailed a brougham.

People smiled outside the window. Children ran about wire-trimmed trees, their nurse maids and mothers close behind. Street vendors lined the road. People chattered outside cafés.

The world turned, just as it had when her father died. She had expected more to change after his passing, that somehow the world would feel the aftershocks. But it remained the same, spinning round and round, while she stayed still.

The brougham stopped in front of her apartment. She remained seated for a moment longer, staring up towards the window. Mamma's red drapes shone through the glass.

She stepped out, extending her payment, then went up the steps to the empty apartment.On the doorstep was an overflowing basket of flowers: bright chrysanthemums, baby's breath, and white roses. Dark leaves peeked out between the blossoms.

A note was tied to the weaving of the basket. She withdrew it and found Erik's familiar childish scrawl:

_My dearest Christine,_

_My condolences on your benefactress' passing. Come visit at your earliest convenience._

_Your dear friend,_

_Erik_


End file.
